A Lesson in Deception
by Countryole
Summary: He is certain that deception only works if the other person is the more deceived. And he’s not. Tony begins a study into the benefits of honesty.
1. Chapter 1

_A Lesson in Deception_

_"Truth fears no question." - _Uknown

* * *

Tony asks Ziva questions about her childhood, about frivolous, insignificant things like when she learned to play piano, her favorite school teachers and her summers in Haifa. He asks her about her first kiss; the same boy she punched in the nose for telling her she was pretty when she was ten, five years later, in the shadows beside her family's home in Tel Aviv late one winter night. His fingers trace lazy circles over her skin while he asks about her first scar, a ridge in the junction at the back of her left knee; she had fallen through the branches of a pear tree after being dared by her brother to climb to the top when she was eight.

Tony knows that Ziva humors him because she's captivated by his ability to become fixated on the irrelevant, but he'd also like to think it's because she's tangled up in the sheets of his bed, his legs, and that she doesn't want to move. He likes the feel of her skin against his, his arms around her waist.

So far Tony's been careful not to ask things like 'first torture technique you ever learned,' or 'first person you ever killed.' Despite what his usual demeanor may lead others to believe, he's not completely insensitive. His inquiries are selective, thought out and cautious, because he fears asking the wrong one will chase her back into her shell. Yet as time passes he finds himself digging deeper and, surprisingly, she yields to his curiosity. Confidence that he's making progress on breaking past her outer defenses, combined with the distraction of drawing her hair away from her neck so he can kiss her collar bone, provides for a slow fall into reckless exploration.

"First time you lied?"

He knows he's one step short of crossing the line she's marked as off limits, but Tony decides to remain true to his nature and forgo presumptuous things like 'personal boundaries' on the off chance that she might actually answer him.

Ziva's usual approach to morning after discussions involve vague answers meant to intimidate him into dropping the matter. Currently, if the continued silence is anything to go by, he thinks it's more likely that she'll choose to ignore this question completely. If she did he wouldn't blame her. Trust and honesty and deception were subjects neither of them bothered to touch unless they had a twelve foot pole, Kevlar vests and protective goggles.

She shifts in his arms, rolling over so she can see his face. He remains quiet and still beneath her scrutiny, barely daring to breathe as he does his best to hold her gaze. It's hardly an easy task, with her face mere inches away from his it's difficult not to concentrate on her lips. He props himself up on an elbow in an attempt to gain some distance, but she slides into the space he's created, resting her head on the pillow just beneath the crook of his arm with a sultry smile on her face.

Under any other circumstance Tony might have let Ziva seduce her way out of an uncomfortable situation, but today he is determined, to his folly perhaps, not to let her have the upper hand. So he tells himself it doesn't matter that the sheet, which had been modestly draped over her just moments before, is slowly inching downward. He also tells himself it doesn't matter that her leg is trying to snake its way between his knees or that her hand, which had been resting on his shoulder, is now traveling south at an increasingly alarming rate.

"Stop it."

It's hardly a command so much as a plea. Her fingers pause lightly at his waist and she raises an eyebrow in an attempt to feign surprise. When he tells her to stop a second time, regaining enough composure to be able to swat her hand away, Ziva sighs in exasperation. She retaliates by prodding him sharply in the stomach, the smile she sported quickly fading into a scowl.

"Stop what?"

"I asked you a question. I want an answer."

"You always want something."

"Stop _that_." This time Tony pokes back, jabbing her between the ribs, albeit more gently than the blow she dealt him because of his fear of dismemberment. "Stop dodging."

The sadistic side of him hopes that provoking her will get her to talk. There is a flash of warning in her eyes, threatening him away from an unfortunate demise with a quick quirk of her eyebrows, a slight tilt of her head, but he does not relent. He continues to glare at her, prepared to wage war if he must, but sincerely hoping it won't come to that. Should she choose to inhibit him physically to shut him up – maybe strangle him with the sheets – he knows he's better off fishing in the arctic then trying to stop her. However, should this turn out to be a battle of words and manipulation, he might just stand a chance.

"I am not dodging anything." Ziva mutters accusingly, attempting to free her wrist from where he's ensnared it in his hand, probably so she could stab him again with her index finger in hopes of hitting a vital organ.

"But you're dodging something." In the name of self preservation he makes sure to shift his lower body away from her legs before she can think about doing any real damage.

"I don't have an answer."

He frowns at Ziva's 'I don't want to talk about it' tone of voice. It wouldn't be the first time they've tap danced around a potentially hazardous conversation, but there's something about the way she won't meet his eyes that makes Tony feel like he's stepping on her toes.

"Ziva-"

"I am going to shower. We have less than an hour to get ready."

"We can be late."

"We were late yesterday."

Ziva snatches her wrist out of Tony's grasp and rolls away from him, throwing the sheet at an angle so that it comes to rest on his head as she gets up. Most mornings he would get up and follow her, but he resides himself to watching as she moves about the room, collecting her clothes from off the floor where they were discarded the night before. Ziva moves quickly, restlessly, her movements impatient and rushed compared to her typical morning calm that she so often displays. She looks like she's walking on glass and he wonders at what his simple question could have possibly done to unnerve her so much that she would let her discomfort show.

The early morning sunlight filtering through the window falls in bars across Ziva's bare skin as she pauses at the bathroom door. It's a split second stop in her forward momentum, she's got her back turned to him and he can't see her face, and he thinks that maybe, just maybe, she'll turn around.

But she doesn't.

Tony gets up when he hears the sound of running water from behind the closed door, gathering his visible garments first. Next he moves to the duvet lying in a crumpled heap at the foot of the bed to begin the tedious search for socks and underwear. It takes him longer than usual because he's still distracted by the pseudo argument that just took place in his bed. He replays the conversation over in his head, including her strategically placed derailment, fixating on one particular statement while trying to ignore the shooting pains in his knees as he kneels on the hardwood floor to double check for any misplaced items underneath the furniture.

"_I don't have an answer."_

Tony's not sure if it's her lack of trust in him that bothers him or the fact that she is lying about lying.

However, he is certain that deception only works if the other person is the more deceived. And he's not. But he is curious. So, being the excellent investigator he is, Tony determines that he will begin an exploration as to the cause of Ziva's uncharacteristically contradictory proclamation and discover the origin of her consequential discomfort.

But first he has to find his boxers.

* * *

_**A/N:** So this was a random little idea I came up with. It will probably be a three part piece or more depending on what I decide to do, but we shall see. I hope y'all enjoy it either way. I was in need of some shameless Tiva angst, it's good for the soul. ;)_

_On a different note let's say this is set somewhere in the not so distant future, for cannon's sake._

_This is dedicated to my wonderful beta, Zaedah. _


	2. Chapter 2

_A Lesson in Deception_

"_When truth is divided, errors multiply."_ – Eli Siegel

* * *

They don't have a case.

It's days like today that Tony usually notices a retired ex marine commandeering the elevator more than is customary as he rotates restlessly between Abby's lab, autopsy and the bull pen. During the next twelve hours of cold cases, detailing evidence lockup and eye sex unhindered by Gibbs' ever watchful gaze, McGee's eye rolling usually reaches levels bordering on epileptic. And usually Ziva would be bored enough to sit on the edge of Tony's desk and engage in a battle of innuendo laced repartee that makes the professional atmosphere she always reminds him to keep a moot point.

Usually.

But Gibbs hasn't moved once from his desk in the last fifteen minutes, even though his coffee cup is empty. McGee, sensing the upset in the equilibrium of his surroundings, is focused solely on his computer and keyboard. Neither of them missed the uniform way in which Ziva's conducted herself throughout the morning or the fact that Tony's been tip toeing around her ever since she arrived. Tony stares across the aisle between his desk and Ziva's, but she's not there to stare back at him. The ninja has fled her lair, her excuse being she wanted a sandwich. Chivalry is dead; he'd offered to accompany her, but had been declined with the excuse that she was 'perfectly capable of purchasing lunchmeat' by herself.

He wants to mope, but Gibbs is psychic and Tony thinks there might be a rule about feeling sorry for yourself that warrants a head slap if broken, so he doesn't.

Ziva has avoided him for the entirety of the morning, refusing to engage in staring contests or even terrorize him with threats of bodily harm by office supplies. She's managed to dodge things like elevator rides, detours to the men's room, vending machine rendezvous and any other situation that may have required her to be in close proximity to him for extended periods of time. Though keeping their distance in the office wasn't atypical given they hadn't publicized their relationship for fear of retribution in the face of rule number twelve, this kind of evasion was starting to unnerve him.

Damn him and his inability to not be nosey.

Not to mention it's driving him crazy that he hasn't been able to touch her. There have been no occasional slips of fingers over exchanged paperwork, no brushing shoulders while standing side by side in Abby's lab, not even any stealth glances from across the aisle. Every time he's tried to hold her gaze she pointedly forces herself to look anywhere but at him. The shift in the status quo has him scrambling to find solid ground. They've never really fought, not counting the unfortunate trip to Tel Aviv almost a year ago, but Tony briefly wonders if this is their way of arguing, minus the angry words and being knocked on his ass, although it feels exactly the same.

Actually, it feels worse.

"DiNozzo," the sound of Gibbs voice snaps Tony out of his daze, "you finished that report yet?"

"Almost, boss."

Tony draws himself up to the computer to give the appearance of a senior field agent hard at work, but his hunt and peck method only produces a jumble of letters and fractured sentences that don't make any sense. Gibbs stands up and the second Tony sees him coming he mutters a curse at the metaphysical under his breath and braces himself for the worst. When the head slap never comes he dares to look up just as Gibbs passes, the older man casting him a sideways glance as he goes.

"Coffee break."

Tony's sends a prayer of thanks to the gods for marines unhealthy caffeine addiction instead of a complaint over his bad luck.

Once Gibbs has disappeared behind the doors of his self proclaimed conference room Tony releases the breath he didn't realize he was holding. McGee is also noticeably less nervous; he's stopped typing and pushed himself away from his computer to level Tony with a curious gaze. At first Tony tries to ignore him, but Tim's blatant gawking is about as ignorable as an uncaffeinated Gibbs.

"Do I have something on my face McGoo?"

Tony turns slowly away from his computer, reclining in his chair with his hands behind his head as he fixes Tim with a look that clearly says he's not flattered by the attention. The junior agent doesn't respond at first, his eyes narrowing as he mirrors Tony's actions, the beginnings of a smirk causing the corners of his lips to twitch. Tony immediately feels that familiar sinking feeling in his gut and he doesn't like it at all. A poised McGee is a McGee that knows something. A McGee that knows something is dangerous.

"What?" Tony shifts uncomfortably in his chair under the probie's scrutiny, but he never breaks the stare.

"What's up with Ziva?" Tony isn't prepared for Tim to cut to the chase so quickly and he visibly stiffens at the inquiry. "She's barely said anything all day. Did you do something to piss her off?"

"How would I know?" Tony retorts, all too quickly too, because Tim seems genuinely surprised at his defensiveness.

"No reason," Tim feigns indifference with a shrug, "I just noticed you two have been... nice to each other lately. But this morning you're both acting strange."

"What do you mean lately?" This time Tony's the one with skepticism laced in his words and narrowed eyes. "We're always nice."

"Sure." Tim deadpans with a look that Tony cannot describe and turns back to his work.

Unsure whether to feel insulted or not, Tony glowers and resumes trying to finish the same report he started an hour ago. He decides the best course of action is to momentarily rid his mind of all things Ziva in order to complete his work, that way when he's finished he can do as he promised earlier that morning and begin figuring out how to fix whatever it is he messed up. And he does want to fix it, the silly game of twenty questions gone wrong doesn't matter in the big scheme of things, but knowing she trusts him does.

Tony pauses after finishing a paragraph of typing, flexing his fingers thoughtfully as he considers the more serious side of his relationship with Ziva, if it can even be called a relationship. Whatever it is, short term of long term, preferably the latter, Tony knows they can only pretend to gloss over all the unmentionables for so long. Eventually something would have to give, he's just not sure how or when. He being the man with the tendency to panic at the drop of a hat when it comes to commitment, she the ex assassin who sometimes doubles as an emotional mute in situations that unsettle her, Tony's not sure any time or any method will ever be perfect.

Then again when have they ever been perfect?

The telltale chime of a cell phone resonating from within the confines of his Armani suit's pocket breaks Tony out of his trance and away from the work that he isn't really working on. Casting a cautionary glance in Tim's direction Tony indiscreetly fishes the phone out of its hiding place, flipping it open and shielding it just beneath his desk. He has to crane his head at a funny angle to see the screen, but Tony doesn't mind if McGee thinks he's reading his GSM again so long as it gives him privacy.

The phone chimes again, louder this time now that it's not padded by the material of his suit and his non existent six pack. When McGee looks up and makes eye contact with Tony he only frowns suspiciously, rolls his eyes and turns back to his computer. Tony resists the urge to stick out his tongue, glad that some semblance of normalcy has come back to the squad room in the form of McGee's disdain. He flicks his eyes back to his phone, still hidden out of sight, scrolling through the two text messages he's just received with a hint of surprise.

They're from Ziva.

The first one says, _"Come down to the parking garage."_

The second one says, "_I have food_."

It irritates him that she has to hide her request for him to come assist her with carrying their lunch up to the bull pen in the form of a statement of possession. Cleary she needs his help, but she doesn't want it. What's more aggravating is that Ziva feels it's necessary to specify why she wants him to come down garage when she would usually forgo lengthy, unnecessary explanation for expediency instead. Her need for clarification means she's anticipating being cornered, regardless of whether or not he actually will.

After a moment of debate Tony stands, typing a quick 'k' into the message queue before clicking send because he knows how much it irritates her when he chooses to use one word, one letter colloquialisms versus complete sentences.

It's childish animosity, but he feels it's justified.

"I'm going to go help Ziva bring up lunch," he says, grabbing his blazer off the file cabinet, "I'll be right back."

Tim glances up from his work to regard Tony with a quizzical look, his lips set in a thin line of incredulity.

"Ziva bought food?"

"No, she bought the inedible kind of lunch probie." Tony struggles into the sleeves of his blazer, suddenly compelled to hurry. "Probably some rusty nails, screws, maybe some lug nuts."

They both know it's not the fact that Ziva bought lunch out of turn that's got Tim interested, but Tony refuses to give Tim any ideas about the nature of his foray down to the parking garage. The last thing he wants to do is leave cannon fodder for McGrisham's overactive imagination to mull over while contemplating the latest adventures of Agent Tommy, Lisa and the rest of team Tibbs. There's no way all that typing he's done the past few hours is just for case reports.

"If I don't come back," Tony pulls at the collar of his blazer and then points at Tim, "you can have my DVD collection."

"Whatever, Tony."

"And tell Abby I'm sorry things didn't work out between us."

"Shut up."

"And make sure Palmer knows I really did want to go to that tap dancing party with him."

McGee rolls his eyes again and for a moment all is right in the world.

Then Tony presses the down button on the elevator and he remembers it isn't.

* * *

_**A/N:** Thank you to everyone who reviewed, alerted, favorited and all the rest. Your comments and feedback are always welcome. I hope this little snippet prooves to be to your liking. Once again many thanks to my beta Zaedah! _


	3. Chapter 3

_A Lesson in Deception_

"_Lying is done with words and also with silence."_ – Adrienne Rich

* * *

Tony thinks this might be the longest elevator ride of his life. Normally he wouldn't mind, but the time it takes the steel encased box to travel to the garage level is just enough for him to recall every encounter that's ever taken place inside the four walls. Not all of the memories are bad, but given the current state of things his mind fixates on the negatives and makes panic gnaw at his stomach.

When the doors slide open he wastes no time in getting out, his eyes immediately seeking out the familiar red of Ziva's mini cooper amongst the other employee cars. He thinks for a moment that he might have beaten her here, which worries him because that means she's texting at the wheel again. It wouldn't concern him so much with anyone else, but he's spent one too many times in the passenger seat, an unwilling victim to her kamikaze driving. If road rage were an Olympic sport, Ziva would win the gold medal. However, adding a QWERTY keyboard into the equation is like giving a track runner speed.

The similarity lies in the fact that neither of them can go in a straight line.

So needless to say when Tony does spot her a few rows down, he's glad for the absence of any emergency sirens or fire trucks.

Ziva's got her back to him when he walks up, a painful reminder of the way she stood in front of him earlier this morning, but the light of the concrete wasteland is harsh in comparison to the warm incandescence that had lit up his room. Tony hunches his shoulders into his blazer, curling his fingers nervously into his pockets, the sense of panic he's been keeping at bay rising with every step he takes.

She turns around at the sound of his shoes scuffling across the concrete, cup holder in one hand and a subway bag in the other. She doesn't seem surprised to see him. Tony tries to read the flash of emotions that cross her face, but before he can she turns away, closing the door and setting the things in her hands on the hood of the car. He takes this moment to close the gap between them, sidling up to the back door with as much casualness as possible, but he's not so much indiscrete as he is cautious. Ziva doesn't miss the move. She mirrors him and leans against the driver's door, her arms crossed against her waist, her eyes locked on his.

Anthony DiNozzo is rarely rendered speechless, but he realizes this will be one of the few times he has to make an exception.

For so long they have relied on silence as a means of communication, passing glances and things not said, because that's all they've ever needed. Two people who've suffered through years of trial and tribulation together didn't require words to be understood. But now, when silence won't suffice, Toy hardly knows what to say or where to start.

"We need to talk."

Ziva's statement is blunt, but her lips crease into a thin line of uncertainty, belying her unperturbed exterior. The way she seems to be hiding herself from him, unwilling to let her walls down for even a moment, stings more than he thought it would. He shouldn't expect anything less; Ziva has never been an open book, not to him or to anyone else. But something in the way her words fall from the air, heavy and lifeless, how she looks past him, not at him, makes Tony all the more frustrated. Her clipped, refined manner of speaking only adds insult to injury, because it means she doesn't trust herself enough to say what she wants, that she doesn't trust him.

"You could have fooled me." Tony mutters, not bothering to hide the dejection in his words, looking away. "You don't avoid someone when you want to talk to them, unless this is like some sort of psychological warfare trick you learned in Mossad, in which case it's working, if you'd like to know."

"You're sarcasm is not appreciated, Tony. I'm serious."

"Who said I was being sarcastic? I'm serious too. I was serious this morning. You didn't want to talk then."

"It's not that I don't want to-"

"Then what do you want, Ziva?" Tony's voice snaps against the air before she can finish. He pushes himself away from the car lest a wayward fist somehow end up in the shiny red exterior. "Honestly, I don't even think you know, because if you did we wouldn't be having this conversation."

Unable to stand still, hurt and resentment and something else running with the adrenaline through his veins, Tony brushes past her and grabs the cup holder and carry out bag off the hood of the car. He's determined to walk away then and there, driven by a combination of stubborn pride and irrational fears, but his speedy exit is stopped when her hand latches onto his wrist, abruptly pulling him back to stand in front of her.

"Do you think this is easy?"

Tony flinches as her fingers dig into his skin, punctuating her words with their familiar burn.

"Do I think what's easy?"

"This," she whispers furiously, "Us. I don't know how to be _around_ you, Tony. It's never been a problem before, because I never had to worry, but now…"

"Now?"

Ziva's hand falls and her eyes darken, burn and turn into ash as she looks away.

"Now is different."

The listlessness in her words causes all the fight in Tony to die instantaneously, leaving him cold and numb and tired. The look on her face leaves him regretting every word he said, because even if she could hide her emotions from him, she couldn't hide pain. And she's hurting; he can see it in the exhausted way she holds herself, like it's taking all her strength to keep herself from folding in two. It's in those few moments of silence that Tony can't help but notice there is something uncannily fragile about the woman who has only ever been strong.

He wants to say so many things then, _so_ many things, but he can't bring himself to say anything, because he's too afraid of what it might mean if he does.

He can't say he loves her, because he's too afraid of what he won't hear.

So he just stands, waiting, focusing on balancing their lunch in his hands as if it were the sole purpose of his existence.

And then, like nothing happened, Ziva seems to change. She recomposes in a matter of seconds, drawing herself up and taking a deep breath, her eyes trained on the ceiling instead of him. He sees that familiar glint of defiance at the edges of her eyes, but instead of the reassurance it would normally leave him with, he's got guilt clawing at his chest.

"We should go in." She's talking, but it's robotic and rehearsed, fake. "Gibbs will be wondering where we are."

"He's getting coffee."

"He could be back by now."

"Doubt it."

"Let me carry something."

"No," he shakes his head and steps out of Ziva's reach when she makes a grab at the cup holder, "I've got it."

But he really doesn't.

* * *

**_A/N: _**_Sorry for the long wait! Life has been very busy, but I hope this chapter was worth waiting for. Thanks to returning readers and new comers alike! Your comments and feedback are much appreciated. :]_


	4. Chapter 4

_A Lesson in Deception_

" _Dare to be honest and fear no labor."_ – Robert Burns

* * *

Tony leaves the Navy yard before Ziva that night.

He contemplates waiting for her, they're the only ones there and no one would see them leave together, but she waves off the offer before he can even voice it. She's been doing that a lot the last few hours, stopping him before he can say anything. He'd like to blame it on coincidence, except he knows better than that. The conversation in the parking garage has been hanging over them all afternoon, the aftermath thus far resulting in no resolutions. At this point Tony's not so sure there will be any, given Ziva's uncanny skill for dodging the topic altogether and his unwillingness to broach it.

So Tony bends to her request to go ahead to his apartment without her. However, he's not entirely assuaged by her promise to meet him there when she's finished. He leaves without a struggle though, ignoring his gut, his excuse being its infamous inaccuracy. He keeps telling himself that the right time to talk will present itself, but driving home, alone, he can't help but notice the sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.

She's trying to avoid another confrontation and he's being a coward.

Tony's not sure there's really a difference.

A few bottles of beer later and he still hasn't decided if it is or isn't. He glances at the clock, sitting in front of his T.V. with a half eaten box of pizza, thinking he should be worried because it's getting kind of late and Ziva still isn't there yet. But he's not. Maybe it's because of the alcohol or maybe it's the 'I told you so' running like bad movie line through his head. Tony takes another sip of his Corona and makes himself as comfortable as possible on the too squishy leather couch. Something tells him if he falls asleep he'll regret it in the morning, but since tomorrow is their day off, being lazy is worth the price of a sore back.

That and he doesn't want to be reminded of how Ziva so recently had been in his bedroom, his bed, before he asked that damn question and everything else went to hell.

He never gets comfortable though, because every time he shifts his position he is made painfully aware of the fact that the couch seems incredibly empty when there's only one person sitting on it. Not even Magnum P.I. proves to be a successful distraction for Tony's troublesome thoughts. The more he tries to focus on the T.V. screen, the less he seems to see. Inevitably his mind drifts elsewhere, to a pretty Israeli with hurt eyes, angry words and an upside down smile.

Tony thinks about the parking garage for the first time since lunch, really thinks about it, but his attempt to understand what exactly happened is made hazy by his semi-drunken state. The only thing he can think of, and he fixates on it like a sinner searching for salvation, is that she's beautiful even when she's mad.

Her name is a prayer spoken in reverence of the highest accord and when it rolls off his lips, making them numb, he knows it's not the beer.

Tony's tired. He's tired of guessing, of secrets and not being able to trust and of deception. He's tired of pretending, something he's certain he's told her before, but that memory is so far away and faint he has to ask himself if it ever really happened. He blinks warily into nothing, cradling the half empty beer bottle between his hands and wishing it was her skin beneath his fingertips, not glass. His eyes wander to the coffee table where he discarded his phone as soon as he got home. Tony wants nothing more than to pick it up, scroll through the list until he finds Ziva's name.

He resists though, because if it goes straight to voice mail he can't promise to keep his mouth shut, not to mention she'll probably be able to tell that he's been drinking. If his previous experiences with Ziva are anything to go by, those kinds of discussions involve scary topics like the impossibility of inevitability and the prospect of spending the rest of eternity alone. And he doesn't want that, he wants this to be inevitable, for them to be inevitable. He doesn't want to be alone, he doesn't want to go and he doesn't want her to leave.

Leave; she's left too many times before, one time almost forever. Fear and panic beat in a erratic tandem with his heart and Tony is reminded of a moment when the words 'there were no survivors' made him regret the last four years of his life and all the things he could have said, but never did. Four years ago he wasn't a man who believed in fate or soul mates or second chances. Four years ago he didn't believe in people being good together unless it included what happened behind closed doors after hours, he didn't believe in stuff that was 'meant to be', because even Anthony DiNozzo knew that only happened in the movies.

But now, God yes, _now_, he does believe in those kinds of things. And sitting there on his couch, alone – he hates that word, how empty it is – he realizes it's all he ever wants to believe in.

"_Now is different."_

And it is, because then she had been untouchable, kept on a level just out of his reach, by Gibbs, by Mossad, by Michael Rivkin and Eli David and everything he was too stubborn to admit. Then he had spent months thinking the only person who ever mattered had died, only to come face to face with her ghost, very much alive, in a prison cell half way across the world. Then he had taken everything for granted. Then he had been ready to die, because there was nothing to live for.

But now…

Tony thinks for a moment that he might understand.

There's nothing to hide anymore, no reason to, because a lifetime of secrecy and deception all came to a close that summer. After pretending because they had to, because between Mossad and NCIS and fathers and rule number twelve there was no other choice, honesty seemed unattainable. Yet here they were, with deceit for baggage and broken trust in desperate need of repair, trying to restore the delicate balance that had taken years to build and only a matter of months to reduce to chaos. After everything they were still two halves of a whole, and whether Ziva believed in inevitability or not, some things just _were_.

Tony's eye lids flutter open as he fights off sleep, but it lingers just at the edge of his vision. In the distance he can hear the soft whisper of rain as it begins scratching against the windows of his apartment, and he tries to remember if the skies were gray earlier in the day.

The thud of a door opening and closing and the sound of keys dropping to the counter pull him away from thoughts of thunderstorms. He's not really awake when he hears his name being said, but he recognizes the voice, a lullaby to his exhausted mind, incredibly familiar. He can feel the couch shift with added weight, a set of warm arms winding their way around his waist. He turns instinctively into the embrace, the presence of another body filling the void that's been with him all day.

And the stranger speaks, sadness dancing at the edges of her words, saying something he can't quite make out. Tony doesn't like it though, this sadness, he's pretty sure it shouldn't be there. In an attempt to chase it away he reaches out, searching for something tangible to hold onto in the darkness. Somehow his fingers manage to curl into hers, so soft and warm and real that part of him is afraid it's just a dream.

He wants to tell her he's sorry.

It's a fierce, burning need that consumes him and threatens to stir him from his half-sleep. He thinks somehow that might make it better, sign of weakness be damned. How could a rule about saying you're sorry be taken at face value anyway, especially coming from a man who's been married three consecutive times? Tony realizes after a few seconds that he must have said this out loud, because the unmistakable sound of laughter follows his thoughts and he can feel the sudden sensation of lips being pressed against his.

She tells him forgiveness is sign of strength.

And he does believe in those kinds of things.

* * *

**_A/N: _**_Many thanks to the most wonderful beta in the world, Zaedah! Without her guidance I don't think I'd survive! Also, thanks to returning readers and newcomers, you're feedback and comments are much appreciated. I hope you enjoyed this chapter. There will be two more updates after this. Spring break is next week and I am going out of town, but I will try to update as soon as possible!_


	5. Chapter 5

_A Lesson in Deception_

"_Honest disagreement is often a good sign of progress"_ – Mahatma Gandhi

* * *

Tony wakes up to the sound of thunder rumbling in the distance, his horizon eye view of the coffee table from where he lays sprawled on the couch brings into his blurry, hangover perspective a welcome sight. There are two Advils, one lime wedge, and a thermos of what smells distinctly like jasmine tea sitting in front of him.

He drinks every single drop.

It's not until he tries to stand up that he notices the note set off to the side. He swipes it up off the coffee table and leans back against the couch, ignoring the tell-tale throb of sore shoulders as they ache in protest. He tries to hold the piece of paper at a distance in an attempt to focus in on the writing, a hastily written scrawl time stamped at five thirty in the morning, detailing the bare minimum about a quick run through Anacostia Park while the weather was still decent. Tony stands, slowly, the digital clock on the cable box blinking at him through the early morning haze. His eyes shift from the piece of paper in his hands to the clock again, then to the window where dreary light is filtering in through the blinds.

It's almost nine. Tony doesn't believe there's anything quick about a three hour marathon through a park that's four blocks from his apartment building, nor does he think that the ominous gray clouds lining the sky make for nice weather.

So instead of taking a shower like he so desperately needs, he refills his thermos, dons a jacket, grabs an umbrella and heads out into the great unknown.

And it is the unknown, because he doesn't know where he's going or what he's going to do when and if he gets there. He pauses in the doorway and takes one last glance at Ziva's handwriting as if staring long enough might make her materialize in front of him.

But it won't and she doesn't.

Tony folds the scrap piece of paper carefully, a delicate memento of an even more delicate situation, placing it in his pocket before closing the door behind him.

His trip down the three flights of stairs to the lobby consists of trying not to fall over his own feet and remembering what exactly happened last night, minus the drinking, because he remembers that part perfectly well. By the time he's out the front door he is able to recall vague images of the ninja who walked into his apartment unannounced, fragments of the conversation that may or may not have taken place. Tony specifically remembers the warmth of an extra body curling into his chest through out the night, but he cannot remember how he and said extra body managed to fit on a couch that was barely able to fit one person sprawled out on it, let alone two.

However, this theory would explain why he woke up feeling like he'd spent the better part of the night as a human sandwich.

It takes his hung-over self a few more minutes to get his bearings down than it would his capable, crazy-assassin-chick tracking self, but luckily he hasn't forgotten Ziva's preferred route for her morning run. He decides to go backwards, starting at the end and working his way to the beginning in hopes of meeting her somewhere in the middle. The irony of his current problem solving method, given the terms on which they'd been speaking the last twenty four hours, is not lost on him; he only wishes he'd thought of it sooner.

He walks slowly, not just because he's trying to do his best to go in a relatively straight line, but because he wants to give himself time to think. He sips at his tea, using his umbrella like a cane, humming some indiscernible tune whose origin Tony's not even sure about. He thinks about last night and he knows there is some token of reconciliation in what had happened, but Ziva's sudden disappearance this morning is enough to tell him the rift between them is hardly fixed.

It's just like her to run when she doesn't want to face something. It's just like him to let her go without trying to follow.

But that changed today, now. And that's when he knows what he's going to tell her as soon as he can find her.

_If_ he finds her.

That familiar fear begins to creep up on him, the one that reminds him of a hot Israeli tarmac and of people being left behind and lost, of 'no survivors' and a dark, dank prison cell in Somalia. Tony tries not to think about it too much, the memories, because even until this day they still make his throat close up to the point of near suffocation and his vision go red with anger, hate, complete and utter loathing at how _wrong_ those memories are. Even now he can hear her, asking him why and talking about justification as if her suffering was just another order she was supposed to follow without blinking.

But that part of her life would never be justified, not to him. And he'll be damned if he walks away from her without a fight again.

He comes to the foot bridge that arcs over the Anacostia River and he has to stop because his chest is on fire, his heart hammering almost as loud as the thunder that continues to chase him. He's not sure if it's from the considerable distance he's walked or if he's having a panic attack; either he's severely out of shape or his anxiety issues are much worse than he previously thought. Or he's relapsing. Just thinking about getting caught in a rain storm with his pneumonic plague scarred lungs is enough to make Tony cringe, rounding his shoulders into his jacket against the cold morning air while muttering tasteless things about D.C. winters under his breath.

He's always known Ziva David would be the death of him.

"Tony?"

At the sound of his name Tony freezes and it's not just because of the cold.

"What are you doing?"

Damn ninjas and their superior stealth. Couldn't she have waited until he looked less like a wheezing alcoholic and more like a boyfriend who wanted to have a heart to heart conversation?

Anthony DiNozzo, heart to heart conversation? His name and that phrase in the same train of thought are almost laughable. Yet here he is, with a headache from hell, having trekked a good half a mile in a brewing winter storm, all for the woman standing in front of him. And for a second Tony's rendered speechless, because she's got her hair pulled back, with those loose wisps falling across her face that he loves to tuck behind her ears so much. Her cheeks are red from running and she's breathing so hard she has to put her hands on her knees to steady herself.

And when Ziva looks at him, her eyes all hopeful and bright, the only thing he can think of doing, damn it all, is kissing her.

"We need to talk."

At his statement, rushed and breathless as she looks, Ziva straightens up, curling her arms around her waist and watching him carefully, trying to determine the weight of his statement. Tony is quiet while he stands, thermos of tea gripped tightly in one hand and the umbrella in the other, prepared for judgment. When she notices the thermos the corners of her lips turn upward, but when she catches him smiling back her eyes fall to the ground and the half-grin disappears just as quickly as it came.

He was prepared to be patient, to do this slowly, to not mess up, but he can't.

"I'm sorry, Ziva-"

The affirmation of remorse is out of his mouth before he can stop it. Begged forgiveness is muted by the thunder rumbling overhead, but he's never said anything louder.

"I'm sorry."

And that's when it starts to rain.

At first the stuff is light, a few scattered sprinkles, but then it builds, a crescendo of falling water that's crashing down around them. Tony can feel it soak into his jacket, his clothes, his skin, but the umbrella remains at his side, in his hands, because he doesn't want to move. Ziva's staring at him and he's too afraid to look away, to budge an inch, because he knows that if he does there won't be any second chances. Even if he could look away he wouldn't, because he's too caught up with the image in front of him. She's soaking wet and her windbreaker is clinging to her body, her hair plastered to her neck and her face where water streams in rivulets across her cheeks. She has that familiar resilience in her eyes that has never ceased to amaze him, but the more it rains the less the walls of her defenses seem to be able to hold up to the flood.

So Tony waits, because that's all he can do, his heart on his very rain drenched sleeve.

One person can only take so much until they break.

"The first time I lied," her words hitch with the wind and are accented by a loud clap of thunder, but her eyes never waver from his. "The first time I remember lying was to my father. There was a bombing two blocks from our home in Tel Aviv and I told him I wasn't afraid."

She takes a step closer until he's almost certain he could touch her if he just reached out and tried, but he doesn't.

"The truth?"

"I was terrified."

Ziva laughs when she says this, as if explosions were supposed to be a normal part of an everyday child's life. He can see the memory hidden behind down turned lashes, flashing in quick succession, almost mirroring the occasional flash of lightening that dances across the sky. It's brief though and soon she's quiet again, struggling to find the words she wants to say. She looks down for a moment, biting her lip, a mixture of pride and shame mixed with the rain, and maybe something else, that arc across the curves of her face.

"But I was more afraid of being called a coward."

"You're _not_ a coward Ziva."

"Maybe not about some things, but that is not my point Tony."

"Then what is?"

Tony has to stop himself from shivering, from listening to the thunder, from thinking about the rain. His whole body feels numb, but it doesn't matter, because the way she's looking at him right now is the only thing he needs to keep himself warm. He can't help but think back six months in the past, a bathroom rendezvous that started everything, a kiss on the cheek. And here they were, six months later. Nothing has changed and everything has.

"My entire life I've been taught to fabricate what I need as a means to an end, to lie and to trick because I was willing to live with my choices, I've never had a reason to be honest unless it suited my situation, but now-"

"Now is different."

Tony's forgotten about the rain, the cold, the wet. He closes the gap until there's barely an inch between them, the umbrella and thermos clattering forgotten to the ground to wallow among the puddles that reflect a broken image of their silhouette back up at the crying sky. He can feel her breath warm on his face and he can see the light in her eyes that's been missing since yesterday morning, finally rekindled and in full flame. Hunger and yearning and want consume him when her arms wind around his waist, her lips hovering near his ear and her body pressed against his own, her voice – a whisper – barely audible over the sounds of the storm around them.

"I do not like lying to you Tony."

"Then don't."

He decides that redemption tastes like jasmine tea with lime.

* * *

**_A/N: _**_Sorry for the long wait. Thanks to my wonderful beta Zaedah as always. And many thanks to any returning readers as our dynamic duo's lesson in deception draws to a close... Look for one more after this. :)_


	6. Chapter 6

_A Lesson in Deception_

"_The elegance of honesty needs no adornment." _– Merry Browne

* * *

If all inroads on the way to forgiveness arrive at the same destination Tony might have to try taking them more often.

A profession of love coupled with the breathless whisper of his name on her lips makes getting lost on said inroads worth all the trouble. And it reassures him that he's not going in the wrong direction. There will never be anything more right than the sound of Hebrew spoken in a broken flutter against the hollow of his neck, the feel of Ziva's fingernails mapping their way across his skin and leaving a trail of fire in their wake. She consumes him, building him up and breaking him apart on a one way crash course that has him begging for mercy. And Tony begs and begs and begs. Her name becomes a place of salvation and he never wants to leave.

He is a martyr and love is to blame.

Afterward he can't help but notice there is something different about his room. There isn't any sunlight filtering through the window, it's still raining outside, but there is an imperceptible glow that settles over him and warms him to the touch. Or maybe it's just Ziva curled into his side beneath the sheets, tracing lazy patterns on the palm of his hand with her fingers, content. He keeps his eyes closed and tries to memorize every touch.

She stops though and he can feel her shift beside him, turning to face him properly. Her breath is warm, tickling his bare skin and he does his best to resist the irresistible urge to smile because of it.

"Tony?"

"Yes?"

He keeps his eyes closed and pictures Ziva propped up on one elbow, tangled in nothing but the sheets and her dark curls all a mess, just the way he likes them. A slight humming sound bubbles up from her throat and the bed shifts again. She's leaning over him now, one hand resting against his cheek, the other splayed gently across his chest- his heart.

"Look at me, please."

And he does, because he's powerless to refuse her.

When he opens his eyes her face is inches from his, her brown eyes peering back at him expectantly, bright and dancing and strong even in the hazy atmosphere painted by the storm outside. Tony watches her lips, so tantalizingly close he debates whether to pull her closer just so he can feel the soft brush of them against his own, but he doesn't. Words teeter on the edges of those lips. So he waits, settling for tucking a loose strand of her wild curls back behind her ear and letting his hand linger longer than necessary just because he can.

"I want to ask you a question." It's a statement that's more sheepish than her usual boldness would provide. "That is, if you do not mind answering it."

There's something beautiful in Ziva's words, her voice. She's always been that way to him, never soft spoken, but poetic, articulate in a way he's never been able to be. She has a talent for saying things without saying them and sometimes he gets lost in translation. It had always been her way of protecting herself, hiding meanings – the truth – in broad daylight. But now he can feel a shift begin to start. It's in this moment of clarity she affords him, this brief pause in time, that Tony realizes he understands everything she's saying.

For once in his life he catches her off guard, because when he does lean forward to kiss her she's not expecting it.

"What-"

He's glad to know she's at least slightly less articulate when he is distracting her.

"Was that for?"

He decides a second kiss – more chaste than the first - is the best answer.

"Ask me another question."

Ziva watches him steadily, considering the situation with the same sort of calm, collected calculation that normally sends him into an anxious search for hidden office supplies. But that is not the case now. He holds her gaze evenly and reclines back into the pillows, looking less like a man with a death wish and more like an expectant child awaiting a bedtime story. Ziva settles back into his side, still silent, and he decides then that he won't delve into any more potentially hazardous interrogations without letting her make the first move. So he waits for her to say something, watching her hand as it rests against his chest, her fingers tapping out a steady rhythm in time with the beats of his heart.

"Have you ever lied to someone you love?" She asks.

And yeah, he's pretty sure he's in love right now.

"Yes." He breathes out, immediate and unwavering. "Yes I have."

Ziva seems to relax beside him at this, a soft sigh escaping her lips and her hand finally resting still against his chest. Tony can hear his own pulse thudding in his ears while he runs his hand absently through her thick curls, watching Ziva's dark eyes flutter thoughtfully under the veil of lashes. There is so much more they could say in that moment, but Tony knows they don't have to.

He hasn't forgotten that night all those years ago when months of espionage and fake-but-not-really-fake love came crashing down around him. He'd stood in front of Ziva then and asked her the very same question while the woman he had fallen in love with caught a one way ride to Gabon. Now here they are years later and somehow he's not surprised in the least at the role reversal. However, the fact that she trusts him enough to ask him that question, to expect him to answer honestly, surprises him in the best sort of way.

It's moments like these Tony wants to remind Ziva that some things are inevitable, but he's pretty sure she already knows.

"I have another question." Her voice breaks the sleepy lull that had begun to settle over them, stirring Tony from his thoughts.

"I have another answer." He replies, shifting so that he's on his side facing her, insufferable smile in place.

"You said I wasn't a coward-"

"You're not."

"Hush," she chastised, tapping his shoulder, "Let me finish."

Tony tries to read her face, tries to see what she's thinking, but it's never something he's been very good at. So he settles for being patient and not arguing, yet another thing he lacks expertise in, biting his tongue and nodding for her to continue.

"You said I wasn't a coward and I am not about some things, but sometimes I am."

Tony does his best not to crack any obscure jokes about Star Wars with reference to Yoda's strange, but philosophical speech patterns. Instead he watches how her hair shifts alongside the arc of her cheek, falling across her collar bone, dark brown against the golden tan of her skin. He watches her eyes, the curve of her lips, the shallow pulse at the junction between the edge of her jaw and her neck where she likes to be kissed.

"Tony," her hand on his cheek for a second time calls him back into reality, "listen, please."

"I am." He shifts closer, trailing his fingers through her curls again, then down her bare shoulder and along the edge of her waist.

"I am afraid of things I do not know, things I do not understand-"

She loses articulation again for a moment and, yes, he is to blame for it.

Years of broken promises and broken trust have brought them this far. For them honesty has always existed in a fragile balance between consequence and circumstance, but now honesty – change, trust, faith – seems less terrifying when it is the thing responsible for creating stability out of the most unstable of situations. Between getting distracted by Ziva's suddenly insistent lips, hands, Tony can see the rain begin to pick up again outside. It falls against his bedroom window relentlessly, but there is something to be said for its persistence.

Storms are rampant in the world and in the heart alike, and change, much like a storm, cannot be altered, but only weathered.

"I am afraid of change, Tony, but I do not want to be."

And as he leans closer to whisper in her ear, Tony is certain this is a storm he wants to weather without end.

"Then let me teach you a lesson."

* * *

**_A/N: _**_Due to computer troubles I've been postponed from posting this final chapter! Thanks to everyone who reviewed and favorited, I appreciate it a lot! :)_


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